


Lone Wolves No Longer

by SilverSnowFox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7711600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSnowFox/pseuds/SilverSnowFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya Stark finally reunites with Sansa and Jon in Winterfell however even amongst her loved ones, she finds a plethora of problems that she can't seem to get rid of. Reconnecting with her family is harder than she ever believed possible and her newfound feelings for her half-brother leaves her confused and disgusted with herself. Amongst everyone's mind is the daunting question of "what comes next?" while the White Walkers prepare to march for the Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Stranger Amongst Home

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I feel as if there isn't nearly enough Arya/Jon fanfiction and I'm pretty confident that I already read everything on this site within a week... So here I am... Trying to add to it and keep myself occupied while waiting for everyone else to update... I have no beta, so bear with me. I would appreciate one though since I find reading through my own fiction multiple times and editing to be a tedious task that I really don't enjoy at all. 
> 
> Last, but probably the most important of all, I do not own Game of Thrones or the A Song of Ice and Fire series.

 

She doesn’t know what she’s doing here. Not really. Arya’s hands ghost over the pale skin of her youngest brother’s face, silently studying his features. She considered wearing another face, she has an abundance of them after all, but the thought of it seemed disrespectful to Rickon. He hasn’t seen her for over five years and the idea of showing up to his deathbed in a stranger’s body felt wrong.

Rickon was just a baby when she left. He looks so much more different now. Honestly, Arya doesn’t think that she would recognize him if she were to pass him on the road or in a town. His hair is longer than their mother would have allowed, Catelyn Tully Stark would have turned up her nose at the state of it and demanded to have it cut. Still, the color and texture is just as she remembered Robb’s being. The thought sends a sharp stab of pain throughout her being. Just like Robb, Rickon’s life had been cut far too soon.

He might have been the Lord of Winterfell, Arya muses. Instead, he lay dead in the home of their ancestor’s remains with a hole in his chest. His body is as still as the statues that surround them. Arya wishes with all her heart that she could have been the one to avenge him.

“I would have made it the most painful experience of his life,” she whispers to Rickon’s dead body. But Ramsay Bolton, or Snow, or whatever he called himself, is dead. Supposedly killed by her sweet sister’s commands, eaten alive by his prized hunting dogs. When Arya first heard the rumors, she laughed so hard her eyes watered and her sides hurt because there was absolutely no way in the Seven Hells that Sansa Stark was capable of such a thing.

The news about the Battle of the Bastards was enough of a reason for her to turn her horse around and head for her childhood home. The farther North she traveled, the more information she gathered. Jon Snow was declared the King of the North. The Bastard of Bolton killed Rickon Stark. Sansa Stark is actually supporting their bastard brother’s claim.

For years all she ever wanted was to return back home but when she gazed upon the burned remains of the castle for the first time in years, all she could feel was disappointment. Arya Stark was finally home in Winterfell and yet, she doesn’t feel at home at all. She scaled the walls easily enough, even though the night was dark and she can’t even see a foot in front of her. Sneaking into the crypts was a harder feat. There is only a single entrance and Jon has commanded a guard to watch over the crypts out of respect for their deceased brother.

A quick and quiet dart to the jugular would have taken care of the guard, had he not felt the need to scratch his chin just as she shot it. It would have been a perfect shot, but instead it hit his hand and caused him to cry out in shock. Arya was forced to sneak up behind him and hit him in the temple with a rock in the end, but the experience left her agitated and paranoid.

She dragged the guard’s motionless body down the steps of the crypt, just out of sight of the entrance. The dart was coated in the sap of the Ellowyn tree, found only in the Braavosi Highlands, and it would keep the guard asleep for a good 12 hours at least.

Now here she was, kneeling before the remains of little baby Rickon Stark while keeping an ear out for any suspicious commotion above. Arya could have revealed herself to Jon and Sansa if she wanted to, she imagined that they would welcome her with open arms and tearful eyes, but the thought of reuniting with her remaining family terrifies her as much as it excites her.

She wants revenge, has lusted for it for as long as she can remember. Even now, she whispers the names of her list over and over again every night until her eyes grow heavy and her mind fogs into sleep. If she is to reveal herself, Arya was sure that Jon and Sana would forbid her from going South again.

The last time either of them saw her, she was a skinny nine-year-old girl with skinned knees and a loud voice who was innocent to the world. They wouldn't know what she is capable of; Arya didn’t want them to know what she is capable of. Although she is proud of the skills she acquired and the strength that she has gained, Arya is still a ruthless killer.

If Father were to see me now…

Arya didn’t even want to think about that. Ned Stark would forever be known for his honor and Arya was quite sure that slitting an old man’s throat after feeding him his two sons wasn’t exactly an honorable act. But honor gets you killed nowadays. Arya remembered her father and her mother and Robb, who all tried so hard to protect their family.

A shout from above alerts her that she has been found. It must be time for the guards to switch. What other reason would there be for someone to be wandering around the crypts at this time?

Flipping the hood of her cloak over to cover her face, Arya sprints for the stairs. She jumps over the unconscious body of the previous guard and pushes into the alert one before he can comprehend what is happening. Kicking his sword away several feet, Arya races for the Godswood just in time to see several men run from the castle. They will try to find her but Arya Stark is a trained assassin and above all else, she has grown up in Winterfell, she knows it like the back of her hand. She is confident that she can find cover in the trees.

Arya ran for several minutes before scurrying up the branches of the Godswoods’ largest tree. Laying herself flat against the limb, Arya waits until the shouts die down and all she can hear is the faint rustle of the weirwood leaves. Peeking around the branch, Arya looks to the ground below her and gasps at the pair of eyes silently peeking up at her. They are as red as the weirwood leaves surrounding her.

 _That’s Ghost_. The direwolf sits at the base of the tree, peering up at her with red, red eyes. _Look at how big he’s gotten._

She’s supposed Nymeria would be around that size as well. He doesn’t bark or growl or even bare his teeth at her and in the back of her mind, Arya wonders if he remembers her, too. It was wishful thinking, Arya knows. The last time she saw Ghost, he was a young pup, much too young to know whom she is.

The crunch of footsteps against fallen leaves warns her of the arrival of another and Arya quickly presses herself against the tree once more, flattening her cheek against the branch.

“What is it, Ghost?” A voice drifts up to her.

“Jon,” Arya gasps before she can control herself. The instant silence that follows informs her that he has heard her. The shink of a sword leaving its sheath makes Arya swallow; she knows now that she’s been caught.

“Who goes there?” He shouts up at her. Arya stays silent, hoping that he will assume it is the wind. “I know you’re up there. Come down now and tell me why you were trespassing into the crypts before my brother’s body could be properly laid to rest. Answer truthfully and you will be judged according to your crime.”

Left with no other options, Arya lifts her head and peeks around the branches she has hidden behind. Identical silver grey eyes meet for the first time in years and time freezes. Arya could never forget him, no matter how much she’s willed herself to back in Braavos. Old scars scatter across his face, but he is still just as handsome as the day they parted. He is visibly more muscular and the sword that now lay limp in his hand was definitely new. Valyrian Steel. She wonders how he came to acquire such a coveted metal.

“Arya,” Jon whispers, so soft she has to strain to hear it. He repeats himself again, louder this time. “Arya!”

“Jon,” Arya chokes out in turn, clinging to the tree so hard her arms shake. How could she ever think to avoid him? This is Jon. The same Jon she thought of every day since they parted. Suddenly she can’t get out of the tree fast enough, Arya almost slips a few times in her haste. As soon as she is within arms distance, Jon pulls her down, encasing her in a hug so tight she’s sure it’ll leave bruises.

In turn, Arya grips his cloak, pushing herself deeper into his embrace. She hasn’t grown much since she last saw him, only a few inches, her head barely reaching his chest but the thought doesn’t make her feel incompetent like it usually would. Instead, she feels safe. It’s a feeling that she’s nearly forgotten after five years on the run.

He cups her face in his hands and angles her head upwards, tilting it every which way as if studying her every feature. Arya knows that she looks drastically different from when he last saw her. She’s a woman now, five and ten years old. Her long face didn’t look awkward and “horse-like” as it did when she was a child. The kindly man once told her that Arya Stark had a pretty face and No One had used that to her advantage while targeting men. Arya’s never thought much of it then, but now Jon is looking at her with such intensity and for the first time in her life she feels beautiful.

She suddenly feels shy and Arya fights the urge to look away, instead hooking her arms around Jon’s neck and hoisting herself up. She winds her legs around his waist and hides her face in the crook of his neck like she used to do when they were children.

“I thought about you every day and every night,” she admits to him.

“I sent out letters to every house north of the Neck,” Jon murmurs into her hair. “Even when I was in the Night’s Watch, as soon as I became Commander, I sent a letter each and every moon pleading for anyone who found you to return you to me. Nobody answered and everyone thought you were dead but I never lost hope. I would know if you were, I would feel it in my soul.”

“They—,” Arya wants to tell him all about what's happened to her since their father’s execution but her throat clenches as soon as the first word comes out of her mouth. If there is anyone on Earth that Arya trusts it is Jon, but during her stay at the House of Black and White she has killed people in ways that would make even Jon flinch. She’s not ready to lose him again, not when she just got him back. So instead she settles with telling him, “I missed you.”

Jon laughs and it’s a sound that Arya didn’t even realize she missed. “I missed you, too. Of course I missed you,” Jon says. “Now, tell me why you were lurking in the crypts at the dead of night like a criminal? Why didn’t you come to me immediately?”

Arya pulls back from where she’s cuddled comfortably against his collarbone to look him in the eyes.

“I was scared,” Arya answers truthfully. She doesn’t elaborate that she was scared they would take away her opportunity to complete her list and avenge their fallen family members.

Jon looks at her with such soulful eyes that it makes hers water. “Oh sweet girl, you need never be afraid of me. I will lay down my life to make sure that you never feel frightened again.”

Arya has to keep from gaping at his reply. She knows this already, she’s always known that Jon would maim and kill and die for her if need be to ensure her safety, just as she knows she would do the same for him. However the way he looks at her with such passion as he says it causes a warm, fluttering feeling to take place in both her heart and her belly. It’s because he makes me feel protected, Arya tells herself.

She also takes note of the title he calls her, _sweet girl_. He’s never been one for such words, only ever calling her “sweet” teasingly when she’d playfully hide Robb’s sword or prank Theon when he was being particularly awful to Jon.

Jon eyes her cloak speculatively, rubbing the thin material between his fingers and giving her an exasperated look. “You must be freezing! Arya, you should know better than to wear such things so far north, especially during winter.”

Arya does know better, but she never planned on coming north in the first place. She doesn’t want to tell him that she was heading south because she knows he’ll question her about it. Instead, she keeps her mouth shut and bashfully nods her head like a disciplined child.

“Let’s get you inside,” Jon gives her a breathtaking smile then. “You’re finally home, Arya.”


	2. Lies Come Easy Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones or a Song of Ice and Fire. 
> 
> Took me longer than I expected to write this chapter, but honestly I don't know where I'm going with this story. I have no plan whatsoever, I'm just kind of winging it. I still don't have a beta, so if there is a grammar issue that I didn't notice, please point it out to me and I will fix it ASAP.

Sansa is beautiful. Arya has known this for as long as she can remember, but now that Sansa is a woman grown she seems like the Maiden in human form. Arya remembers her own brown hair and skinny form and feels like a mouse in comparison. She knows that she’s pretty now, Arya can see it in the way that men look at her, but she doesn’t think that she can ever match up to her older sister. 

 

Arya curiously glances over to where a towering blonde woman in armor is standing next to her sister. Her stance is straight and alert; it’s as obvious as day to Arya that the woman is here to guard Sansa.

 

_That’s the woman who killed the Hound. She told me that she would protect me and take me somewhere safe._ Arya wonders what the woman is doing here, now. She’ll have to ask Sansa or Jon about it later.

 

Upon arrival to the castle, Sansa immediately sweeps Arya into a gentle embrace, tears glistening in her blue eyes. Arya stiffens on contact and awkwardly rests her hands on Sansa’s waist. She doesn't think that she has ever been hugged by her sister before.

 

Arya was never close to Sansa; every moment that they weren’t fighting they spent ignoring each other. Sansa was too much of a lady and Arya was too much of a troublemaker for them to ever get along. She didn’t mind her distance from Sansa, considering that Jon was more than she could have ever asked for in a sibling, friend, and companion.

 

But now Sansa has Jon too and Arya doesn’t quite know how she feels about that. _She doesn’t deserve him._ It’s the first thought to pop into her head. Arya immediately fights to cast it away but it sticks to her mind like honey. _She’s always hated him, ever since she understood what the word “bastard” indicated._

Arya can’t help the bitter feeling in her chest when she thinks about the months they’ve spent in each other’s company, bonding. _Now Sansa has Jon and I have No One._

When they part, Arya gives Sansa a beaming smile despite her dark thoughts. The House of Black and White taught her many great things, acting being one of the most useful. Arya would have been ecstatic to see her sister again in any other situation, but the thought of Sansa and Jon being reunited before Arya even thought about returning to Westeros will forever fill her with jealousy.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Sansa gasps out when she can finally find her voice again. It’s a phrase that Arya is getting used to.

 

“I wasn’t.” It’s the only answer she gives. She knows that Sansa will inquire into what she’s been up to, so to prevent further questions, Arya forces out a yawn. “Forgive me, but I am exhausted. May I be excused?”

 

“Of course,” Jon interrupts before Sansa can even reply. She gives him a questioning look in return and Arya captures it all. In another world, they wouldn’t even acknowledge each other. “Let me show you to your room.”

 

Jon offers her his arm and Arya feels awful about it, but she still walks past him. She keeps her eyes on the floor because she knows that if she glances up at him, Arya would see the look of a betrayed man.

 

“I can find it myself,” she tells him as she walks away. “Thank you.”

 

It takes her less than a minute to find her old room. When she opens the door, Arya’s not at all surprised to see how different it looks. Her bed is considerably larger than it was five years ago and Arya can’t find a single item that used to belong to her.

 

_They were all probably looted or burned by the Iron Islanders_ , Arya thinks.

 

Her dresses were of the finer and more expensive material that could be bought in the North and the embroidery on them were intricate and pretty. Catelyn Stark would never allow Arya to embroider her own clothes since she was so horrible at it, so she did it herself. It would fetch a pretty penny on the market, even if they were used. Her trunks and vanity and looking glass were probably sold as well.

 

Arya stifles a sigh the further she studies the room, closing the door behind her. It’s nice enough, but it reminds her too much of a chamber from an expensive inn rather than her childhood room.

 

Her satchel is carefully settled next to the bed, untouched, just as she requested. In any other situation, the maids would have already raided through her belongings and put them in their rightful spot, however Arya has no idea how she would explain the numerous faces and outfits that took up most of bag.

 

Arya doesn’t give the room another glance before she peers out the window, hefting herself on the ledge once she decides the coast is clear.

 

She vaguely remembers watching Bran climb out of his window years ago, then sneak back in before anyone else would realize he was gone. It was their little secret. Sometimes they would sneak out together and practice swordplay in the Godswood. Arya was better than him with swords, just as she was better than him at archery, but Bran was a sweet and gentle child and if he was jealous, it never showed.

 

When they were finished, they would sit by the pools and talk about their future. Bran wanted to be in the Kingsguard, knowing that he had no place in Winterfell as the second son. It was a realistic future for him, especially considering his familial connections and training.

 

Arya would go on and on about sailing to Essos and becoming a sellsword. She dreamed about becoming a warrior so great that she would forever be etched in history. In the back of her mind, Arya always knew that her family would never allow that of her. Even though her father indulged her whenever she would play with the boys or skip her embroidery lessons, Lord Stark would still marry her off to some highborn Lordling and send her away from home. Just like any other highborn Lady, Arya would be reduced to a breeding mare, forgotten to time, while her husband would be the one written about in history books.

 

It’s a ten-minute walk from the castle to the Godswood, but once she’s there Arya unsheathes Needle from where it lay hidden underneath her cloak. _Life isn’t fair for women._

She forgets her anger and focuses on her movements, each carefully practiced and precise. Her sword sails through the air like a bird’s wing in the wind and she swivels around from one direction to the other. She parries left, and strikes right, and then twirls around the pool like one of the Lyseni entertainers she spotted dancing for a previous target.

 

The pool brings up memories that Arya doesn’t wish to think about now, so she swings faster and strikes harder. _My father used to clean Ice on that boulder._ She quickly averts her eyes from said rock, focusing on an imaginary opponent. _I used to swim here with Bran and Robb and Jon, before the Septa decided that it was improper for a girl of my age to swim naked with boys, even if they were my brothers. Sansa never liked swimming, not even when she was my age. She said that true Ladies don’t swim for fun._

Arya clenches her jaw and swings harder, too hard. She loses her balance and tumbles to the floor. In less than a second, Arya is on her feet again, sword at the ready but she knows that if such a thing were to happen in a real battle, she would already be dead. _I have to do better than that._

 

She practices for hours, until her skin is coated in a thin film of sweat, and when she finally decides to stop, her breathing is harsh. However her mind is finally settled and she can think again without feeling jealous about her sister.

 

Crouching down next to the pool, Arya carefully sticks a finger into the steaming water. Deciding that the temperature is bearable, she strips out of her clothes and steps inside. It’s warm and comforting and Arya lazily wades around the water, dunking her head under the surface and brushing through her hair with her fingers.

 

_The last time I took a warm bath, I was in King’s Landing. Father was still alive and my only worries were the monsters in the dungeons._

Arya thinks about Ilyn Payne and Cersei Lannister and she clenches her fists so hard her nails cause her palms to bleed.

 

_They’re still on my list. Until the day they die, they’ll be on my list._ But how was she to get to them when she was so far North?

 

She doesn’t want to leave Jon or Winterfell again. Even though Winterfell doesn’t quite feel like home anymore and she doesn’t know how to act around Jon. The girl that he left behind five years ago was as dead as her father, mother, and brothers. She could never go back to being the old Arya Stark again, no matter how hard she wished for it. But she still loves Jon, just as much as the old Arya Stark did, maybe even more after all that had happened.

 

But she still needs to complete her list. Arya cannot simply _let it go_. This is a task that she will either fulfill or die trying.

 

_I cannot allow myself to settle down. If I get comfortable then I’ll never leave._

 

Arya picks up the sound of twigs breaking beneath boots, so soft that she wouldn’t hear it if she weren’t trained. Quick as a snake, she lunges for her pile of clothes, sifting through the items before grabbing a knife. Needle is all but useless to her now. Submerged in water, there is simply no way for Arya to fight with a sword. Gripping the weapon tightly, she hides it underneath the water, making it appear as if she was just a defenseless young woman out for a swim.

 

When Jon appears from the shadows, he immediately flushes and averts his eyes. Turning around so that his back is to her, he stammers out an apology. “I’m sorry. I’ll allow for you to finish up. Shout for me when you’re proper.”

 

Arya visibly relaxes, tossing her knife back on to dry land. “You’re fine as you are,” she tells him. She’s used to public bathing now. In the House of Black and White, the Faceless Men didn’t feel lust, only after they took on a face and a name. Modesty has no place in the profession of an assassin.

 

Jon stays silent for a second, as if too shocked to say something. Arya wishes that he’d face her so that she could read his expression. Finally he settles on, “It’s improper.”

 

“Since when have I cared about proper?” Arya spits out the last words as if it’s filthy before she even realizes what she’s doing. For a moment, Arya remembers what it feels like to be a child again and a smile creeps on to her face.

 

“Shout for me when you’re proper,” he repeats, taking a step deeper into the forestry. He says it like a command and Arya clenches her teeth. Unlike Robb, Jon never bossed her around, even when they were children.

 

“I’m not finished,” Arya grounds out. She knows that she’s being childish but she can’t help herself. “And I won’t be finished for awhile, so if you want to talk to me about something then tell it as you are. Or you can stop being stupid and you can turn around and talk to me face to face.”

 

Arya can see the moment that Jon accepts defeat. His shoulders slump and he turns around slowly, giving her time to change her mind. Jon keeps his eyes on the ground, as if looking at her will give him some horrible disease.

“You can’t see anything,” Arya informs her. It is still nighttime and the water reaches up to her shoulders, shadowing her body under its surface. This seems to give Jon the courage to look at her face.

 

He locks eyes with her instantly, as if to reassure her that his gaze will not stray. Arya wants to tell him that she could care less about where he decides to look.

 

“You told Sansa that you were going to bed,” he reminds her, his tone sounding accusing. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when I came to check up on you and you weren’t there?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Arya lies, the words easily slipping off her tongue.

 

“And you couldn’t have told me that you were leaving the castle?” Jon nearly snarls. “If you wanted to come here, I could have had someone escort you. I would have come myself if you wanted me to. We are more in danger now than ever before, Arya. It’s not safe for any one of us to be wandering around alone at the dead of night like this.”

 

“I don’t need a guard.” Arya glares at the ground and tightens her fists under the water.

 

“Is that all you have to say?” For the first time in her life, Jon looks disappointed in her. “You saw what happened to Rickon, you were there when Father lost his head, and we all know what happened to your Lady Mother and Robb. Arya, all I want is for you to be safe.”

 

The mention of her family nearly causes tears to well up in her eyes, but she fights them back. Arya hasn’t cried since she saw the Frey’s toting around Robb’s body like a trophy.

 

“What are we going to do about the Lannisters?” Arya hisses out their name like a curse.

 

“Arya, what are you talking about?” Jon has the decency to sound confused and Arya looks at him incredulously.

 

“I mean, what are we going to do with the Lannisters?” She slows down her words, as if that will help him understand. “The Lannisters. The family that killed our father and murdered our brother and my mother at a wedding.”

 

Jon sighs heavily and Arya takes note of how stressed he looks. His shoulders are slumped and he seems as if he’s carrying all the weight of the world. He takes a seat at the edge of the pond, right in front of her.

 

“King Joffrey is the one who ordered our father’s execution and the Freys killed Robb and Lady Catelyn. King Joffrey died at his wedding last year,” Jon reminds her. Then a smile appears on his face and he tells her the next sentence as if delivering a present. “Four days ago, after Brienne of Tarth returned from the Twins, she informed me of what happened just before she left. I wanted to wait until you were well rested but since we’re on the subject, I might as well say it now. Walder Frey was found dead, so were two of his sons. It was done brutally, just as he deserved.”

 

Jon scans over her face, waiting for a reaction. Arya furrows her eyebrows and debates her next move. In the end, Arya decides that this is something that she simply can’t keep from him.

 

“I know,” Arya replies. “Because I killed him. Cersei Lannister is still alive. So is Ilyn Payne, the man that swung the sword. We can’t just ignore this!”

 

Jon’s face immediately goes blank, then his expression morphs into one of confusion. “You killed Walder Frey and his two sons?”

 

“I did,” she responds without hesitation. “I butchered his sons and cooked them into a meat pie and I served it to the so called Lord of the Crossing before slitting his throat.”

 

Internally, Arya fears that he will turn around and walk away. If he chose never to speak to her again, Arya wasn’t sure how she would cope. To him though, she appears strong and resolute. Her mask doesn’t waver.

 

Instead, Jon puts his head in his hands. He looks devastated, not disgusted like she thought he would be. “You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he tells her.

 

“It needed to be done,” Arya insists.

 

Jon seems to swallow a lump in his throat before forcing out his next words. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

 

“I can’t tell you that right now,” Arya tells him apologetically. “You would hate me forever.”

 

“Arya, I could never hate you,” Jon promises. “You could have killed a thousand innocents and I still wouldn’t be able to hate you.”

 

The look in his eyes is serious and Arya knows that he’s telling her the truth. She smiles back in response, happy to know that her fears have been put to rest. _Jon will want me, even if no one else does._

 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Arya promises. She’ll have a lot to think about tonight, in the meantime.

 

“Thank you,” Jon tells her. The look of distress on his face fades away and graciousness replaces it.

 

“I’m finished with my bath now,” Arya informs him. She wades for the edge of the pool where her clothes are strewn on the floor, but pauses before hefting herself up. Arya knows better than to step out of the water without first giving him a warning. He’d probably have a heart attack if she were to try.

 

“I’ll walk you back to your chambers once you’re finished dressing,” Jon says while he rises. “This time around, actually go to sleep. I know that you need it.”

 

“No promises,” Arya calls out to him as he walks away and the answering laugh causes her belly to flutter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I appreciated all of your reviews. Reviews encourage me to write faster, since I'm a lazy human being that likes to procrastinate. Considering that I don't have an outline, I'm also open to suggestions, even though I cannot guarantee that I will use them.


	3. From There to Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire.

Arya wants to lie, desperately. She wants to tell him that she’s been hiding in the Riverlands this whole time. She wants to say that she’s masqueraded as a poor beggar girl in the streets for all these years and that she learned how to kill from watching the soldiers that marched through. 

It wouldn’t be a complete lie. Blind Beth was an orphan girl whom begged for money and gathered information from listening to whispers. In a way, Blind Beth is closer to who Arya is than the little girl that wrecked havoc throughout Winterfell. 

Arya can’t lie to Jon, though. Even though she knows she could weave a believable story if she truly wants to. She’s done with hiding behind masks and pretending to be someone that she’s not. She won’t be a stranger in her own home. Even if all of Winterfell and the North comes to hate her, at least they’ll know the true woman that Arya Stark has become. 

Arya doesn’t sleep that night. She stays up and stares at the walls and the ceiling and into the dark, dark night through the window that she crawled out of earlier. When the sun starts to rise and the black that encases her disappears, she crawls out of her bed with ease. She’s used to sleepless nights by now. Arya hasn’t had a good sleep since her father was taken prisoner back in King’s Landing. 

When Arya opens the trunk of clothing that her sister has provided her, she lays out the dresses upon her bed and stares at them. They’re beautiful in a way that colorful southern silks will never be. She runs a hand through the white fur lining of a grey dress and marvels at how soft it feels. It reminds her of her childhood dresses in a way, even though these ones are of higher quality. 

It’s obvious to her that these garments are meant for royalty. But then again, she is considered a Princess of the North now. Arya nearly laughs at the thought. She’s not fit to be a princess. She’s not even fit to be a lady. 

She knows that she’ll be expected to walk out of the room donning one of these finer gowns, but Arya hasn’t been a Lady for years now, so she carefully folds each and every one and packs them back into the trunk. She pulls out a filthy Braavossi tunic that she doesn’t think has ever been washed and a pair of breeches that she bartered for in one of the small villages that she passed through. 

Arya rakes through her hair with a comb she finds on the vanity and studies herself in the looking glass. There are a number of pins and bands available to her in one of the drawers of her vanity and Arya knows how to style her hair in elaborate twists and curls and braids popular from towns in Westoros and Essos, but she leaves her hair down. It’s grown considerably longer and she hasn’t cut it since she escaped Harrenhal. 

Although her hair now brushes against her back, Arya is reminded of before she left for Braavos. She thinks about Tywin Lannister and the Brotherhood without Banners and Gendry. 

She hasn’t thought about Gendry for many months now. The thought of him abandoning her for the Brotherhood still left a bitter feeling in her chest. She travelled with him for so long and he kept her identity a secret when he could have easily turned her in to the Gold Cloaks for a sizable reward. Before they knew that the Queen wanted him dead.

Arya thought of him as her pack and offered him a place in Robb’s company. But in the end, he so easily left her behind for the promise of a knighthood and a family. She wonders if he’s still alive, still serving the Brotherhood without Banners. 

With a final glance at her image, Arya heads for the dining room where she finds Jon slumped over a plate of biscuits and sausages. He smiles at her once she enters, but it looks forced. She gives him a once over and notes with worry that he still looks as exhausted as he did last night in the Godswood. 

“Where’s Sansa?” Her sister’s absence is glaringly obvious. Growing up, Sansa was always the first one to wake up. Her mother stressed that it was highly important for a Lady to go to bed early and to awaken early and Sansa was the only one to take the advice to heart. 

“Still sleeping is my guess,” Jon shrugs. “The sun has hardly risen from the ground. Why are you awake so early? I figured that you’d be out for the whole day considering how long the journey must have been for you.” 

“Why are you awake?” Arya counters with another question. His eyes are sunken in and bloodshot and there are dark bags underneath them. It looks to Arya as if he hasn’t slept in years. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep lately.” It’s the only response he gives and Arya finds his elusiveness annoying. 

“If I’m to tell you my story, I’m expecting you to tell me yours,” Arya says with ice in her voice. “I have questions for you as well.” 

“We’ll get to that eventually,” Jon sighs without looking at her. “After we break our fast, would you like to take a walk in the Godswood?” 

Arya knows that this is his way of asking her if she’s ready to talk and she nods and takes her seat besides him. She fills up her plate with a small portion of every dish and chews slowly. Arya was still traveling with the Brotherhood the last time she had a proper sit-down meal, back when she was forced into that awful acorn dress that Lady Smallwood lent her. 

It doesn’t take much to fill her stomach and Arya takes a long sip of water. She glances down at Jon’s plate and sees that it’s still half full. He hasn’t refilled his plate once and he’s only taken two or three bites since she sat down. 

“Are you finished?” Arya asks him, pointedly looking at his plate. 

“Aye, I haven’t had much of an appetite lately either.” Jon pushes his chair out and offers her an arm. 

When they reach the pools, Arya rolls up her breeches, kicks off her boots, and plops down on the edge, dipping her feet into the warm water. She suppresses a smile when Jon does the same, taking a seat next to her. 

After much hesitation, she lays her head against his side, just like she used to do when they were children. They’re not the same people they were anymore and Arya is beyond bitter that they don’t fall into easy conversation and finish each other’s sentences. 

His warmth is comforting and Arya feels her heart jump when he throws an arm over her shoulder. Maybe they’re not so different after all. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that tunic,” Jon says into her hair after a moment of silence. 

“It was given to me back in Braavos,” Arya replies into his side. 

“Braavos?” Jon sounds startled and he pulls away, as if he needs to see her face to know that she’s telling the truth. Arya keeps her face glued to his side and moves with him. He gives up easily enough, and they resume their earlier positions. “What were you doing all the way in Braavos?” 

So she tells him. She tells him about Yoren and Harenhall and the Brotherhood without Banners. She tells him about the Hound and how she sailed to Braavos with an iron coin given to her by a Faceless Assassin. Her voice doesn’t waver once, even when she talks about her first kill, even when she talks about giving up her identity, everything that made her Arya Stark for justice, everything except for Needle that is. She finishes with her list and the names that she’s already crossed out. 

“I need to finish this, Jon,” she pleads with him next. “After everything I’ve been through, what we’ve all been through? It will all be for naught, if we ignore the atrocities dealt upon our family.” 

“I understand,” Jon soothes her. It surprises her how well Jon takes the news. Arya can read his face like a book, but he doesn’t interrupt her once. Not even when he looked sick to his stomach, after she described the events of the Red Wedding. 

“But I can’t just allow you to go off on your own to finish your list. We just got you back again. We need you here. Sansa and I, both. The whole North needs you here. We’re strongest when we’re together. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. 

“There’s a war coming, an even bigger problem than Cersei Lannister and her Southern army. The Others are real and they’re marching for the Wall. I promised these men that I wouldn’t use them to fight in a war that they have no business in. If they get past the Wall, we’ll all be dead. It doesn’t matter if we’re highborn or lowborn, every single woman, child, and man will all be slaughtered if we don’t deal with this threat, now.”

“The Others?” Arya has half the mind to tell him to stop playing around, however she knows that Jon would never jape about something like this. The thought is so incredulous though, so unbelievable… “Are you sure? Who told you of this?” 

“I saw them myself,” Jon answers her with certainty. “The first time I saw them, I thought that I had gone mad. But, they’re real and they’re out there and they’re gathering an army.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t doubt you, I swear, but…” Arya trails off. “These are the creatures that Old Nan used to tell us in her stories. Back when she used to frighten us so that we would behave.” It’s hard to believe that any of Old Nan’s stories could be true. Even her Lord Father told her that the White Walkers weren’t real. 

“Well, they aren’t stories any more,” Jon says firmly. 

“Is that why you’ve been relieved of your Watch? So that you could gather an army?” The whole things seems insane to Arya. “The last I heard of you, you were the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. They called you the Black Bastard of the Wall in Braavos. But your vows… It shall not end until my death…”

The words flow off of her tongue like a song. She never listened much to her lessons, but after Jon told her that he was joining the Night’s Watch, she delved herself into studying about it. 

“I died, Arya. By my own brothers… They killed me because I brought the Freefolk past the Wall. Stabbed me half a dozen times, right in my chest,” Jon says his words with a mixture of sadness and anger. “I was dead and I was brought back to life again, by a witch.” 

“Jon…” Arya doesn’t know where to start. But then she remembers the Brotherhood. She remembers how Beric Dondarrion was killed by the Hound. He, too, was brought back to life. 

“I’m not lying, Arya. I know that it sounds mad, but—,” Jon seems to sense her hesitation. 

“I believe you,” Arya interrupts before he could continue. She scans over his face, eyeing his scars not for the first time. “Can I see? Where they stabbed you?” 

Jon hesitates for a second and Arya can tell he’s fighting against the idea that it’s not proper. But in the end, he lifts his tunic up, right up to his chin. 

Arya stifles a gasp and reaches out a hand to touch the skin next to his scars. They’re deep and large and obviously fatal. She runs her fingers along the skin, gently, so soft that she knows he’ll only feel a whisper of a touch. 

“Do they still hurt?” Arya asks. She remembers her own scars, right above her belly. The Waif had intended to hurt her before she died and it had worked. Arya had never experienced pain quite like that before. 

“Not much,” Jon admits. “Not anymore. When I was fighting, during the Battle for Winterfell, it ached. But I can ignore the pain most of the time.” 

“The men that did this to you? Are they dead?” Arya hopes that they are still alive. Just so that she could hunt them down and kill them herself. 

Jon drops his tunic and Arya takes it as a sign to retract her hand. “No,” he responds. “I hung them for what they did. But there was this kid, Arya. He was so young…” His voice trails off and Arya knows that guilt is starting to set in. 

She takes his hand in hers and intertwines their fingers. “Nowadays, children need to grow up fast. It doesn't excuse his actions. He knew what he was doing when he sent that blade through your chest.” 

The silence that follows doesn’t bother Arya, much. However she still has so much more questions. “Will you tell me everything now? From the beginning?” 

She lays her head against Jon’s shoulder again and listens as he tells his story. They spend hours in the Godswood, catching up after so many years apart. By the time Arya pulls her feet from the water, her toes are so wrinkled they look like prunes. She can’t find it in herself to care. This is the closest she’s felt to Jon since the day they parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than I expected, but it's finally here! I got a little distracted and started writing a new story... Reviews are deeply appreciated~ 
> 
> I actually expected this chapter to be a lot longer than it is, but I shortened it because I'm lazy af

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and suggestions are extremely appreciated (Especially since I'm not exactly confident with my writing skills anymore). Also, rating is subject to change. It might go up, I haven't decided yet.


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